


Revenge, the Cousin of Justice

by VestAndBowTie



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, No Mercy Percy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-09-26 19:53:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9919832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VestAndBowTie/pseuds/VestAndBowTie
Summary: Percival returns to Whitestone after a long absence. He bears a bullet carved with a name, and a burning desire to use it. When he left, he was a child, fleeing from smoke. Now, Percival returns, wreathed in smoke.





	1. Returning Home

**Author's Note:**

> What is 'Canon-Typical' violence? I'll put it this way; this story is heavily inspired by the film 'John Wick.' Take that into consideration.  
> I'll tag characters and relationships as they're added/developed.

Percival sat on the edge of the bed, a pistol held in his hands. His eyes were glazed, and his grip was loose. Smoke wafted around the room, tendrils tracing lazy patterns through the air.

Closing his eyes, Percival sucked a breath between his teeth. He reached up and pulled the cigarette from his lips and flicked it into a nearby wastebasket. He ran a hand through his short, white hair, and his eyes focused. He slid the magazine from his pistol, and placed it on the floor before him. He racked the slide and the chambered round ejected, clattering to the ground.

Percival placed the now-empty pistol on the floor, next to the magazine. He leaned forward, and with exaggerated care, picked up the bullet. A single word was scratched into the surface of the bullet;

_RIPLEY_

Percival replaced the bullet in the magazine.

* * *

Percival woke the next morning to the insistent beeping of his phone. His eyes snapped open and he bolted upright, breathing heavily. He stayed that way for a few moments, letting his breathing slow and his heart-rate return to normal. Mechanically, he reached for his phone and deactivated the alarm. Sighing, Percival groped around the nightstand for a moment, his hand bumping into the lamp before landing on his glasses. They were round, with bare wire frames.

Routine helped focus Percival. Following the process he had set for himself years ago, Percival prepared for the day. He showered and dressed, almost without thinking. He wore a sharp black suit with a white shirt and a black tie, over a ballistic vest. He wore his hair in an undercut style, and ignored the few days of dark stubble on his jaw.

Though he was dressed – and armoured – Percival still felt naked without a firearm in his immediate possession. He retrieved his handgun from where he had stowed it last night. He replaced the magazine in the grip, and racked the slide, chambering a round. Percival tucked the weapon into a holster he wore on his right hip. From his bag, Percival drew a second, smaller handgun. This he slipped into a holster he wore at the small of his back.

Surveying the room, a strange feeling passed through Percival. He was a neat individual, keeping his possessions squared away in a bag, and leaving nothing out in the open. He was also reasonably self-disciplined; his preparation had taken minutes. He had, in the past, travelled with people who were neither neat nor self-disciplined, and for a moment, he missed them. He allowed himself a sad smile before returning his attention to the room.

Atop the bed was everything Percival owned. A heavy blue coat lay next to a duffel bag. Percival shrugged on the coat, and slung the bag over his shoulder.

* * *

Percival stepped onto the street and sank deeper into his coat. He sighed, and his breath condensed into a white cloud. Whitestone, a city in the north of Tal’Dorei, was cold all year. However, in the winter, Whitestone wasn’t just ‘cold.’ A stiff breeze sliced through all but the hardiest clothing, and a constant drizzle ensured that any person who ventured outside for more than a few moments was miserable, and truly freezing.

Whitestone natives were easy to spot; they were the people who _only_ wore three layers. Percival had been born in Whitestone, but had left in his teenage years. It was only recently that he had returned. However, the cold felt familiar to him. He tucked his chin to his chest to fend off the wind, and marched determinedly through the streets.

Percival had expected that returning to Whitestone would be difficult. However, he was struck by how _familiar_ everything felt. He had been travelling, alone and with others, for so long, that he had forgotten what having a home had felt like.

When Percival was growing up, he had lived in a manor on a hill overlooking the city. He had attended a private school with a reputation that rivalled the finest academies in Emon. Percival had never really enjoyed school. He was intelligent enough, or so his teachers had said, but he never really applied himself to his maximum potential. The truth was, Percival didn’t care about what he was _supposed_ to learn.

Percival’s passion had been for making. He started out in cosplay and prop replication. He built a reputation for himself in the convention community, and his commissions were highly sought after. However, cosplay itself never appealed to Percival; interacting with people as himself was uncomfortable enough, playing a character was out of the question. So as soon as he was old enough to work legally, he took a job as a mechanic, and built cars and bikes for a while.

When he was younger, Percival had assumed his life would follow no path. His parents’ wealth meant he had no need to generate income, and his parents’ apathy meant he felt no need to make anything of himself. He could afford to take life lazily, and just do the things he enjoyed. Percival’s older siblings would take over the family business, and the younger siblings received most of the attention. Percival was free to live as he willed.

Now, Percival knew there was only one path before him.

* * *

 

Percival sat at a table inside a small cafe. It was a recent addition to the town, with the bare brick and exposed piping popular among hipsters.

The first time Percival had taken coffee, it had been black, and with no sugar. He had taken a deep draught, determined not to show weakness to his new companions. The boiling liquid had scalded his throat, and tasted like dirt. He later found out that, in fact, dirt had been mixed into that cup. Ever since then, he took his coffee with a lot of sugar, and with milk, when it was available.

So now Percival sat nursing a weak, sweet mug of coffee. He wrapped his hands around the mug to keep his hands warm. He sat that way for a long moment, still and silent. The only other person in the cafe was the barista, who was putting on a good show of pretending to be busy.

Percival looked at the young woman for a few seconds, but she refused to meet his eyes. Percival did not blame her. He cut a fairly intimidating figure. He wore his hair buzzed close to the skin on the sides of his head, to show off the skin raised and warped in scarring.

In his youth, Percival had sustained severe burns to about a third of his body. He had healed, and the scars were in places Percival could hide, but he chose not to. To Percival, they were a reminder; to strangers, they were a warning.

Taking another sip, Percival pushed his mug away. He withdrew a laptop from his bag, and opened it. He logged in with a password and a thumbprint. He connected to the free wifi offered by the cafe, and opened his email inbox. He had a few unread messages. Most were unimportant, and he ignored them. A few caught his attention.

 

 _From:_ _Vex’ahlia_                    
_Subject:_       [empty]

 _From:_ _Vax’ildan_                    
_Subject:_       _percival von fuck you read our emails_

 _From:_           _Yennen_                       
_Subject:_       _re: Let’s catch up._

 

A wave of guilt passed through Percival, and he drew a cigarette from a packet. As he did so, the steam rising from his coffee began to turn black, and smell acrid. Percival put the cigarette between his teeth, but did not light it. The smoke curled around the cigarette, and around Percival. A clattering of something dropped drew Percival’s attention, and he snapped around to see the barista looking thoroughly spooked.

The image of Percival standing, weapon smoking, blood splattered on the back wall of the cafe assaulted Percival’s mind. The urge to draw his weapon was powerful, but Percival fought it down. Instead, he took the cigarette in his hand. “Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked, in a tone that brooked no argument.

The barista shook her head, her eyes flicking from the _No Smoking_ sign to the handgun worn at Percival’s side, and the smoke swirling about his body.

Percival returned his attention to his emails, and he immediately deleted the emails from Vex’ahlia and Vax’ildan. He was mildly surprised that they had managed to find his contact details. Although, given the circles that Vax’ildan had run in, it was less surprising. However they had done it - Percival would have to deal with whomever had told them eventually, to prevent another such leak - that was a chapter of his life that Percival was leaving in the past.

The email from Yennen, however, Percival read.

 

_Percival,_

_Words cannot communicate how pleased I am to hear from you again. There were rumours, of course, but I never dared to hope. I would be delighted to meet with you upon your return. We have much to discuss. You can find me at the temple to Pelor, at any time._

_Pelor’s light shine upon you Percival,_

_Keeper Yennen_

 

A memory of two brown haired youths flashed through Percival’s mind. They were sat at a table, seated opposite to one another. They both poured over books; one, a religious text, the other, a spy novel. Percival smiled, warmed by the pleasant memory. When Percival had left Whitestone, Yennen had been in his teens, and fairly new to ministry. Percival was proud of his friend for having taken the vows of Keeper. The role was one of lifelong service, and a prestigious one in the temple of Pelor.  
  
A shiver ran down Percival’s spine as the door opened. A young man entered and ordered coffee. Percival signed. Time for him to move on. If the city was waking up, then his place in the cafe was about to become much less private. He closed everything on the laptop, then logged out of it, and shut it down. He stuffed it back into the duffel bag. He left, leaving behind a large tip.


	2. Breach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guns, and the threat of violence/death. The 'John Wick' parts. The Fic will proceed in this format, every second chapter containing guns and violence/death.

****_ On his person, Percival was carrying a fearsome array of weaponry. On his right hip, A Heckler & Koch P30L handgun. On the small of his back, a subcompact handgun; a Glock Model 26. Strapped to three different places on his body were knives of varying sizes, and filling out his pockets were three spare magazines for each of his handguns. _

_ Percival sat in his car, concentrating on the sensation of the Glock pressing into his back. He took a long breath, and then another, watching as it fogged up the windscreen. _

 

Do it.

 

_ Finally, he forced himself into action. _

_ He crossed the street, approaching a man in a suit leaning casually next to a door in the wall. To the average observer, the man was just taking a smoke, but Percival could see the lines where his jacket pinched around a concealed weapon. Percival withdrew his H&K and held it behind his back. As he drew closer, he stopped. “Hello Francis.” _

_ The man lowered his cigarette, and his eyes widened. “Mr de Rolo.” _

_ Percival’s breath caught in his throat. The man had worked for his family. He didn’t want to kill this man. _

 

You will do what you must.

 

_ “You’ve lost weight.” He commented, stalling. Francis, for his part, seemed equally conflicted. He worked for a number of families, it seemed. “Over sixty pounds.” he replied.  _

_ Percival brought his hands together in front of his body, revealing the handgun. “Yeah?” Francis had been a formidable fighter when Percival had known him. That he was now even more mobile was another reason Percival did not want to fight him. “Impressive.” _

_ Seeing the weapon, Francis’ expression dropped. “Are you here as Orthax, sir?” _

_ Percival regarded the man gravely. “I’m afraid so, Francis.” He hadn’t expected his new reputation to have spread so far, or so fast. _

 

You have done impressive work. Be proud. 

 

_ “Why don’t you take the night off?” _

_ Francis took a deep drag from his cigarette, and released the breath slowly. The smoke lingered around Percival for a moment.  _ _ Francis pulled an earpiece from his ear, letting it hang on his shoulder.  _

_ “Thank you sir.” _


	3. Memories

The temple to Pelor was an awesome structure. Surrounded by gardens, the building itself resembled a giant greenhouse. Constructed of wooden arches, strung across with stained glass panels, the place was beautiful. Percival felt slightly alienated by it all. The place was so full of light and warmth, despite the weather outside.

Percival paused for a moment, a few feet inside the door. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, admiring the building. His hands rested on the hidden Glock, and Percival regretted the necessity that he wear a weapon. He felt vaguely uncomfortable bringing an implement of death and destruction to a place of worship. The people who moved around him smiled happily at him, and some greeted him quietly.

At the front of the main room was a stage set a few feet higher than the surrounding area. Seats were arranged around this stage, and pointed toward it. Sitting on the stage, his legs hanging over the edge, was a young man dressed in traditional robes. He seemed to be deep in discussion with an older couple, smiling at them and gesturing to the roof and the floor.

Percival took a seat in a back corner where he could watch. He recognised his old friend, though he had changed greatly since Percival had left. His hair was still a brown colour, and worn in a ponytail tied back with a leather band. His discussion with the older couple seemed to wind down, and he stood as they meandered away.

Standing, Percival suddenly felt quite nervous. He considered leaving the temple, but he was too late. Yennen saw him and smiled. “Percival,” he cried, “my old friend!”

Yennen approached Percival, and opened his arms wide. Percival’s face flickered for a moment, and Yennen’s eyes widened. “Of course, sorry!” he cried, lowering his arms, and instead offering his hand. Percival grasped it. In truth, Percival had long ago lost his fear of close contact with others. He was actually aware that Yennen would probably feel the vest, and possibly the weapons strapped to Percival. Still, Percival was impressed that Yennen had remembered his old fear, and was filled with warmth for the young man.

“How are you, Percival?” The question was a simple one, but Percival could not answer simply.

“Actually, I prefer Fredrick now, if you don’t mind. Fredrick White. But I’m doing quite well, thank you.” Percival had good instincts, and better training, and none of the worshipers in the temple seemed suspicious. However, he had learned the hard way never to trust anyone.

Yennen was surprised. Percival’s name had been a point of great pride in his childhood. He was a de Rolo, after all. However, Yennen had always had a gift for diplomacy. “Of course, excuse me.” Percival could see the questions Yennen was burning to ask. _What happened that night? How did you make it out alive? They found all nine bodies. Why didn’t you come back sooner? Why come back at all?_

Settling for a query halfway between curiosity and restraint, Yennen asked Percival, “So, was there a girl in Whitestone you couldn’t bare to leave behind?” The young Keeper grinned, taking the edge off the inquiry.

Percival coughed, and it tasted acrid. He had left a girl in Whitestone. They had been so close. So close to escape.

“Work actually,” he replied smoothly, “And speaking of work, congratulations, Keeper.”

Yennen laughed easily. “Well, you know, it took me two goes to get through the trials. But I’m here now.”

Percival clapped the other man on the shoulder. “Be proud of your conviction. Not all of us can claim such righteous goals.” He let his hand drop.

At that moment, a heavy bell tolled, and Yennen checked his watch. “Oh, look at that,” he exclaimed, “I have a sermon to preach.” He offered his hand to Percival, and the pair shook. “It’s good to see you again.” He started to leave, then turned back. “Of course, you’re welcome to stay…” He let the offer hang in the air.

Percival had worshiped Pelor, long ago. So much had happened since then. The longer he stayed, the more he could feel it; he was not welcome in this temple. Percival brought with him something even more offensive than guns, and the atmosphere itself made it known that Percival’s presence was abhorrent.

“Thank you, but no. I have business to attend to. We will meet again though. Until next time, Keeper.”

With that, Percival spun on his heels and left the temple, scrambling for a cigarette. The moment he was through the doors, He brought the cigarette to his lips, and felt the smoke float around it.

* * *

Percival had planned to spend the rest of the day walking throughout the city. He had come to Whitestone to work, and he was _very_ good at his job. He knew that Ripley had come to Whitestone on a contract. He knew that the target of the contract was “The Baroness of The Grey Hunt.” Who exactly that referred to, Percival was unsure. There had been no noble order called ‘The Grey Hunt’ in Whitestone when Percival was young.

So Percival had planned to walk the streets. He needed to find his way back into the elite districts of the city. He needed to refamiliarise himself with the city. This place had been his home turf, but it had changed so much.

Before long, however, Percival found himself facing to the hill to the north. He sighed, and his breath condensed before him, turning dark before dispersing. Percival shook his head, trying to clear it. He had left his home so long ago, and never looked back. Now that he had returned, he found the urge to visit the manor irresistible. He began the long trudge up the hill.

* * *

Percival approached the blackened ruins slowly. Time had not been kind to the structure. Piles of masonry lay scattered, where walls had fallen over. A layer of grey ash covered the ground, and through that, new life was growing. New growth covered most of the remains; ivy crept over any walls still standing, and patches of moss were growing on the discarded stones.

The basic layout of the building was still apparent. Percival walked along the front wall until he came to the doorway. All that remained of the impressive oak double doors were the cast iron ring knockers, and even they were heavily rusted. Percival stepped across the threshold, and unconsciously wiped his boots on the ground. 

Looking around, Percival’s lips drew into a snarl. He could see the manor as it had once been. He had entered into large antechamber, with a rack for shoes, and a stand for coats. He passed through into the next room. This was an impressive foyer. Stairs wrapped around the walls, leading up to a second floor corridor. Under the opposite wall, the door lead to the sitting and entertaining rooms, and even further through, to the kitchen.

All that remained of the room was a stone outline. Percival, on autopilot, followed the wall to the right, and came to the center of the back wall. With each step, Percival could hear the blood pulsing in his ears. As he walked, he kicked up ash, and the thick grey cloud followed him. Though he remained on the ground, he could see the second floor corridor. His room was in the middle on the right. The furthest room on the right had belonged to Julius.

A memory of the first time Julius brought Sina to the manor burst unbidden into Percival’s mind. Julius was grinning from ear to ear, and Sina clasped his hand nervously. The family had been told that Julius would be bringing home his partner, and the de Rolo children had planned to give them hell. But seeing Julius so happy, Percival had lost all desire to follow through.

Percival squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the heels of his hands to his temples. He took a few slow breaths. When he was ready, he stepped forward. He passed the room that Oliver and Ludwig shared on the right, and Cassandra’s room on the left. Opposite his own door was Whitney’s room. On the left at the end had been Vesper’s room. At the end, the master bedroom, where his parents slept.

Shaking his head, Percival reoriented to the ground floor. Ahead of him was the kitchen. To his right was the dining room. Another memory rose in his vision. The family sat around the table; Father at the head, Mother to his right, and the children in order of age down the table. Oliver and Whitney were kicking each other under the table, and Percival was studiously ignoring them.

Breathing heavily, Percival turned to his left. As his breath condensed, it turned black, and swirled around. A heavy black cloud swirled around Percival now. It flowed over him, obscuring his form. As it passed over his head, the smoke streaked into a point, giving him the appearance of an ethereal raven.

Before him now was a small sitting room. Suddenly, Percival burst into a run. He dropped his bag to the ground to gain more speed. As he reached where the wall would be, he threw himself through the window. He landed heavily, and the scars on his hands and knees ached with memory of landing on the glass.

Rising, Percival bolted. He ran away from the house, down the northern side of the hill. His breath came ragged, and a trail of smoke streamed out behind him. Percival’s foot dipped into a depression in the grassy field, and his ankle rolled. He pitched over, plowing into the ground. He came to rest in a patch of white flowers. Gasping now, he rolled away, and tried to get up, but his body failed him. Percival lay there as another memory assaulted him.

He saw Cassandra sprinting behind him, and behind her, the house blazing. He yelled to her, and slowed slightly, hoping she would catch up. Suddenly, she fell heavily. Percival ground to a halt, and made to go back for her. Before he could, gunshots rang out, and Cassandra’s body jerked. Percival screamed, but Cassandra made no reply. A tall form was silhouetted against the flaming house. Percival turned and ran, tears streaming down his face.

Percival lay on the ground for a long time. Smoke wafted off him in sheets. Eventually, he rose, and returned to the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How to dialogue? Is this how?


	4. Change-rooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Violence, death. This one steps up in graphic content.

_ Francis pointedly looked the other way as Percival slid through the door. The change in atmosphere was palpable. A cool, breezy night gave way to a hot, humid room. The room was lit with low red and blue lighting, and atmospheric music played softly over hidden speakers.  _

_ Steam hanging in the air darkened as Percival moved through it, and followed him lazily. Before him were two rows of lockers. A young man wearing a white robe stood before an open locker. Percival considered hiding until the man had left, but caught sight of a gun in the man’s locker. _

 

Now is not the time for mercy.

 

_ Percival drew a knife, and stalked up to the man. He reached around the man’s head to grab his face and bare his throat. He sank the knife into the man’s neck, his other hand keeping the man’s dying gurgles silent.    _

_ The man slumped to the floor, and the sound caught the attention of another robed man, who had been washing up at a sink. This man, Percival recognised. His name was Vouk; he served on the Briarwoods’ protection detail. Percival took the two steps to close the gap, and threw his whole weight into a jab to Vouk’s nose. Cartilage cracked, and Percival couldn’t help the ghost of a smile cross his face.  _

 

Good. 

 

_ “Where are the Briarwoods?” Percival’s voice was an unearthly growl. When he spoke, the smoky haze that followed him pulsed, and swirled. Vouk blinked tears out of his eyes.  _

_ “Fuck you, motherfucker!” he spat, swinging clumsily at Percival. _

_ Vouk’s movements were telegraphed to Percival, and he swayed out of the way easily. He stepped back, to give himself space, and stomped on Vouk’s knee. The limb bent unnaturally, and the man cried out in pain. He slid slowly to the ground, scrabbling at the sink. Percival watched him for a moment, face devoid of emotion. He took hold of the Vouk’s robe, and spun him around so that his throat was constricted by the cloth. His voice flat and monotone, he asked again, “Where are the Briarwoods?” _

_ Vouk gurgled, a sick, wet sound. His fingers scrabbled weakly at the iron grip fastened on his throat. Percival yanked his fist, applying a sudden pressure to Vouk’s neck.   _

_ “Bathhouse, downstairs!” He cried.  _

_ Percival loosened his grip, and the Vouk took a breath in relief.  _

_ “You burned my house,” Percival commented, anger creeping into his voice. Before Vouk could move, Percival slammed his head into the edge of the sink. A gash opened in Vouk’s forehead, dripping blood. Percival swung Vouk back up, so that they were face to face. Black smoke billowed around the pair. _

 

Very good.

 

_ “You killed my family.” He threw Vouk down again, so that he was face down in the sink. Percival maneuvered himself so that he was behind the other man, and pressed down on the back of Vouk’s head. He reached around and flipped both the taps on.  _

_ Vouk writhed, but he could get no leverage, and Percival held him down as the water crept up toward his face. Sputtering, Vouk spat one final “Fuck you!” before Percival pushed his head under the water and held it there. Vouk spasmed violently, thrashing, trying to get free. Percival stood and waited. After what seemed like an eternity, Vouk went limp.  _

  
Excellent.


	5. Coffee and Conversation

During winter in Whitestone, daylight hours were much shorter. So although Percival and Yennen watched the sunrise, it was already late morning. They sat in a cafe, wrapped in many layers. The rain had not yet started, and so the view was breathtaking. The pre-dawn sun lit up the cloudy sky in striking oranges and pinks. 

Percival watched Yennen’s eyes. They were a bright icicle blue - as were those of most Whitestone natives - and they focused on the sunrise. Percival uncovered his coffee, and black smoke wafted toward the ceiling. Sighing, Percival withdrew a cigarette. The smoke shifted to swirl around the cigarette briefly before resuming its path to the ceiling.  

Yennen turned to face Percival, and an expression flickered briefly across his face. The corner of Percival’s mouth twitched. “I know, it’s a poor habit. I fear it is one I cannot shake.”

Taking a sip of his coffee, Yennen stalled for a moment. Eventually he settled on a reasonably diplomatic reply. “You’ve changed so much, Per-Fredrick, sorry. What happened to your hair?”

“Stress, I’m afraid,” Percival replied, running his hand through his hair. He gestured with his cigarette, “It gets to you in my work.”

“Of course, of course,” Yennen nodded, “It suits you.” He hesitated for a moment, before asking: “What line of work--”

“My work?” Percival interrupted, “The less you know the better. I’m a contract worker, but the nature of my contracts is often highly secretive.” Percival blinked away the image of drawing his H&K and ensuring his secrets stayed secret. 

Yennen raised his eyebrows. “Oh, secrets?” He sat back in his chair. “You’re a regular James Bond. I notice you wear a gun.”

Percival smirked. “Do you expect me to talk?”

“No, Mr White, I expect you to die.”

The silence stretched between them for a few moments. Percival took a sip of his coffee, then set the mug down. 

“I suppose I am a little like James Bond. My work takes me all over the world. I started carrying for a contract in Wildmount. The revolution was starting to heat up; it wasn’t safe.”

That much was true. The Wildmount Revolution had been Percival’s first solo contract. Until that point, he had used weapons provided to him by his allies. Back then, he hadn’t needed to wear weapons.  

“You were in Wildmount during the revolution?” Yennen had shock written across his face.

“Yes. Before you ask, in some ways, it was much worse than you ever saw on the news. In other ways, it wasn’t nearly as bad. The feeling of the place; it depended on where you were, who you were with.” 

Yennen looked at Percival with awe now. “What were you doing in Wildmount?” 

Percival had been expecting the question. Within Wildmount lay a city called Draconia. Within Draconia, the gap between the upper and lower classes was huge, and widening all the time. The poor were not just ignored, they were willfully oppressed. Eventually, someone had gathered up enough money, and hired Percival. 

“Work. I’m afraid I can’t be more specific than that.” Percival averted his eyes from Yennen. He hated lying to the man. Yennen was perhaps the only person in the world Percival could call a friend. He hid his discomfort behind another sip of coffee.  

Facing the dead end, Yennen changed the subject slightly. “You know, we had a kind of revolution of our own.”

Percival’s heart skipped a beat. He kept cool, placing his mug on the table. “Really? I never heard about it.”

“Yeah, yeah. When the de Rolo house fell, the city-- it was chaos.” Yennen gestured to emphasise his point. Percival noticed that Yennen was an emotive speaker. He must have picked it up as part of the Keeper training. The Yennen that Percival remembered had been quiet and retiring. “Political groups that had been held at bay or appeased, they rose up without the de Rolos.”

Percival scratched his chin. “Actually, this is triggering something of my memory. I may have read about it. New noble houses or some such?”

Yennen nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah. That’s… well, that’s a good way of thinking about it, I suppose. In theory, they’re political parties, trying to get a candidate elected to mayor.”

“But?”

“Well, now that you’ve said it, they do conduct themselves very much like noble houses did back in the day.” Yennen’s eyes glazed over as he considered the idea. “They have offices in the city, of course, but they mostly run themselves out of mansions on the outskirts.”

Percival worked very hard to manage his behaviour. He kept his voice to a casual tone, and would not allow himself to lean forward. “How many are there?”

Yennen frowned slightly, searching his memory. “There’s three, but only two actually mean anything. The Red Dawn, they’re a socialist house. They think that the national council should pay for everything, by taxing everyone. It’s not super popular.”

“Can’t Imagine why.” The two shared a chuckle, before Percival steered the conversation onward. “And the other two ‘houses’?”

“The frontrunner for a while was the Golden Sun. They’re a more traditional group, sort of like the de Rolos, but  _ more _ , you know what I mean? Almost monarchistic. They were headed up by the Briarwoods. They were pushing for Delilah to become mayor. I think they had their eyes on the Council.” Yennen dropped eye contact when he mentioned the de Rolos. He was clearly unsure of how to speak of them around Percival.

Percival did not press the issue. He carried on with the conversation. “I heard the Briarwoods were assassinated. Do you think it has anything to do with politics here in Whitestone?”

In fact, Percival knew  _ exactly  _ why the Briarwoods had been assassinated. However, he was curious as to how their deaths had been interpreted by the public. He also needed to know the wider effects of the Briarwoods’ deaths. 

Yennen tilted his head, considering the idea. “I heard about that. I don’t know. Seems like a super extreme response. A life taken before its time is such a waste.” He fingered a small charm he wore around his neck.

Percival felt anger rising in his chest, and the smoke from his cigarette thickened. He fought down the feeling with an intense force of will, and continued. “Who’s leading the Golden House now?”

Yennen thought for a moment. Percival took a long drought from his cigarette. In reality, he breathed in no smoke. When he breathed out, as he did now, slowly, his breath was coloured by a thin black haze. The effect was that of a deep, calming breath. The anger faded slightly.

“Kerrion Stonefell,” Yennen replied, “He’s playing his cards super close to his chest. I think he’s scared of doing anything too radical in case he gets killed too. So the Golden Sun lost all it’s momentum.”

Percival nodded. “Which leaves one remaining house.” Percival’s heart rate picked up slowly. This was what he needed to know. 

Yennen took a sip of his coffee before replying. “Yeah, the Grey Hunt. Honestly, the names these people come up with. They’re so pretentious.” He raised his eyebrow at Percival, taunting him gently. Percival smiled slightly, but did not rise to the bait. Yennen continued. “Anyway, the ‘Grey Hunt.’ They’re a democratic party. They don’t want a mayor anymore, they want representatives from various areas - Education, Farming, Military, whatever - to form a council.”

At this, Percival raised his eyebrow. “We have that. Ever since Uriel stepped down, they’ve had a council rule Tal’Dorei.” 

Yennen nodded, his enthusiasm building. “They want one at every level. They say it ‘distributes responsibility evenly’.” Yennen punctuated the phrase with air quotes. “They also want to host regular forums where the people can have input. It all sounds great. I’m probably going to vote for them.” Percival shook his head slightly. Whitestone really had changed in his absence. He put the thought away, and focused. He was getting close to his goal. “Who heads up the Grey Hunt?”

Yennen shook his head. “No-one, that’s the thing. They call it a ‘distributed hierarchy.’ It all sounds very fancy. I did hear they had a bit of a shakeup recently though. Some more traditional leader types asserting themselves, probably. I guess we’ll see how it turns out. The election is in a few months. Will you be staying that long?”

Percival considered the idea. “I don’t know. It depends on how long the job takes. Probably not. I’m good at what I do.” His face was deadly serious. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a pain to write. I've never been particularly good at dialogue.


	6. Sylas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Violence and Death. NoMercyPercy gets his groove on.

_Percival paused for a few moments, gathering his breath. The smoke around him slowed from a violent storm to a gentle billow._

_Stepping over the body, Percival stalked up to the door. He pressed his ear to the cloudy glass. Hearing nothing, he swung the door open and stepped through, closing the door behind him._

_Percival was confronted by a change in atmosphere. Here, the lighting was much lower. Strips of red and blue neon hung sparingly from the roof, and arrangements of candles were distributed around the room. It was even hotter in here, and as Percival moved, more steam blackened and joined his cloud._

_Below him, Percival could see a number of pools and spas, separated by a maze-like arrangement of cloudy glass barriers and pale wooden shelves holding towels. Percival viewed the room from above, on a catwalk which led down to the first of the pools. Hanging curtains obscured some parts of the room. Percival could not yet see his targets._

_Drawing a knife, Percival held it behind him as he stalked slowly down the catwalk. His eyes eyes swept the room, landing on a guard, posted at the bottom of the stairs. Percival approached the man and started to speak quietly. The guard frowned, and leaned in closer to hear what Percival was saying._

_Percival shoved the guard against a wall, his left hand pressed against the man’s face. He slashed the guard’s stomach. He stepped away for a moment, keeping his hand pressed against the guard’s face. The guard gurgled desperately, and pressed his hands to the slash in his stomach. Percival swung the knife up and plunged it  up under the man’s chin. He stepped in closer as he did, so that he was nearly nose to nose with the man. The knife was not long enough to reach through to the brain, so the man died slowly, wide eyes begging desperately to Percival as he bled out._

Excellent.

_Now at ground level, Percival glanced around for his targets. Through a gap between two glass panes, Percival saw a small spa, with only two people sitting in it. They were facing away from him, so he could not identify them for certain._

_At that moment, another guard rounded a glass pane, and came face to face with Percival. He reached for the gun holstered at his hip. Percival lunged at the man, who swayed out of the way. He brought his gun up, but Percival slapped the arm away, and slashed the wrist with his knife. The guard grunted in pain, and released the gun, which scattered away._

_Percival slashed wide, but the guard stepped back, and Percival was left momentarily off balance. The guard capitalised on this moment, and dropped into a tackle. He threw Percival into one of the sets of wooden shelves. The shelving collapsed under the force, and the two men careened through, landing heavily. They rolled away from each other in opposite directions and stood, facing one another._

_The guard threw a jab at Percival. Percival ducked under the fist, slashing the guard’s stomach with his knife. Grabbing the guard’s outstretched arm, Percival dropped to his knees, pulling the guard so that he was stretched across Percival’s back. Percival stood, and twisted. The guard was thrown over Percival, and he landed on his stomach. His head hit the floor with a crunch. Percival ducked around and put a knee on the guard’s back._

_Percival surveyed the room. Beautiful young people in varying states of undress swam and lounged. A few looked curiously at the disturbance. Percival now had an unobstructed view of the small spa he had sighted earlier. The two occupants had turned to see what had happened. They were indeed, Lord Sylas and Lady Delilah Briarwood._

Do it. You are so close. You promised me.

_Percival made eye contact with both of them, before reaching forward to slash the throat of the guard he had pinned._

_By this time, more guards had rallied, and Percival burst into action. He swapped his knife to his off hand, and drew his H &K P30L. He snapped off a few shots at an approaching guard. The man was thrown back into a pool, and a few people screamed. Chaos broke. Beautiful young people realised they were in actual danger. They variously squealed, hid, or ran for the doors. Percival did not have a clear shot on the spa. _

_The Briarwoods shared a look, and a nod. They broke for opposite sides of the spa; Delilah heading away, toward the doors, and Sylas emerging to face Percival. Sylas was massive. He stood a full head taller than Percival, and was encased in rippling muscle. Percival centered his aim, but the moment was long enough for Sylas to grab his hand, and the shot went high. Sylas brought his other fist in for a sharp jab at Percival’s side. Percival grunted as a rib cracked._

_Percival stabbed with his knife, the pain distracting from his aim. The blade sank into Sylas’ shoulder, who winced, but kept pushing forward. Percival’s eye’s widened. The man before him was a monster._

_Sylas threw a jab at Percival’s face, but the smaller man was faster, and Sylas’ momentum carried him forward slightly. As he put his foot forward to steady himself, someone leaped into the spa, presumably making for the doors on the other side. Water sloshed over the edge, and Sylas’ footing was slippery. He slipped, and swung his arms to try and regain balance. Percival, now released, took a step back. Sylas recovered, and lunged for Percival, but it was too late. Percival shot him twice in the stomach, and as he fell, once in the head._

_Smoke billowed from Percival now. Tendrils reached out from the cloud, and wrapped around Sylas. Delilah screamed from the opposite side of the room._

Exceptional work, Percival. But you are not finished yet.


End file.
